


Knife's Edge

by razielim



Series: Merry Smutmas 2017 [15]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Anal Sex, Knifeplay, Light Masochism, M/M, Mild Blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-11 19:24:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12942027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/razielim/pseuds/razielim
Summary: Merry Smutmas, naryrising!Shiro has noticed the blade lying next to them in bed. It’s almost like an active participant in bed, its presence palpable. Keith seems oblivious to it. Shiro supposes that once you’ve accepted something as part of yourself, you no longer feel the boundaries of its aura pushing up against yours. “Keith… pick up the blade.” “Why?” “Don’t you think it’s time you used it?”





	Knife's Edge

Keith’s hands aren’t as steady as they usually are.

They’re typically the hands of a surgeon, but right now, he’s got the edge of his palm braced on Shiro’s pectoral to contain his wobbling as he slowly lowers his blade to Shiro’s neck, aiming to trace it harmlessly along the line of muscle.

Shiro’s chest thrums under his hand, and Keith pulls the knife away, heart racing. “Maybe you should pick a less dangerous body part to ease yourself into it.” Shiro doesn’t sound worried, but there’s a bit of a frown on his face as he studies the blade, a little cross-eyed at the proximity.

“No. No, I told you this was a bad idea. I can’t do this.” Keith sits up and away, pulling the knife as far from harming Shiro as it can go. He’s got half a mind to toss it across the room, but he cares a little too much about the weapon to do that. His hands stop shaking, though, and that’s already good enough.

Shiro props himself up on his elbows, now frowning at Keith. “You’re not going to injure me.”

“But what if I do?”

“You won’t.” And then Shiro’s reaching for his wrist and guiding it down until Keith’s got his fist braced on the pillow halfway between Shiro’s ear and shoulder. “Just keep it here for now. You can figure out how you want to use it when inspiration strikes.”

Keith sighs and takes the out, closing his eyes and nodding, promising himself that inspiration won’t strike. Shiro’s very well-meaning, but he’s got no idea what he’s talking about, insisting that Keith wants to use the blade during sex.

Reaching back, he finds Shiro’s cock and presses it back into himself, his relaxed rim yielding easily to the hard flesh. He wraps a loose fist around himself, sighing happily as Shiro’s heat and width roll waves of pleasure through him. He opens his eyes, just to see Shiro’s loving eyes for a moment, finds himself held in their intense gaze, and lets his lids fall closed once more, reassured.

He doesn’t remember when he sat up straight, or how long he’s been rolling his hips over Shiro’s, trance-like and easy, Shiro’s fingers twitching into his waist every now and then, neither of them hurrying towards orgasm and only enjoying the lazy push and pull of pressure.

Shiro hisses softly and moans, and Keith chuckles, finally opening his eyes again to share a smile. He freezes, watching a bead of red slide into the valley of Shiro’s chest, shimmering there for a moment before fracturing into little dikes along the pattern of Shiro’s skin and drying quickly to a ruddy tone.

Keith’s eyes meet Shiro’s, and he has no words so he’s trying to apologize with just his horrified stare, afraid to even lift the incriminatingly lowered knife from Shiro’s skin. But Shiro’s gaze is steady on his, smoldering in an expression that’s got the fine muscles of his eyelids trembling in their narrowed intensity. They’re both panting, but Keith’s body slowly slips from its tense posture. He glances at the knife, the very edge of it tainted with a glimmer of pink, hovering over a vivid red cut of matte, aired-out blood.

He keeps his eyes on the cut and the knife as he rolls his hips again. Again, there’s that reassuring push and pull in him, and again his shoulders unwind until he’s losing his posture to a pleasured curl. He can feel his pinky knuckle pulling against Shiro’s sweat slick skin as he moves the knife lower, rotates it, and with a glance up at Shiro, traces a slow, measured line over the form of Shiro’s lower ribs.

Shiro groans, lashes fluttering and fingers tightening on Keith’s waist, and when Keith pulls away, the edge of his knife is only a slightly darker pink, but the line of new blood on Shiro’s skin is rising up and then rolling over, down off Shiro’s side and onto the sheets in one — two — heavy drops. Three.

Keith hasn’t stopped slipping onto and off of Shiro’s dick and he’s not sure whether or not his mastery of the knife during such a movement proves Shiro’s theory about the knife being an extension of Keith's own being.

He suddenly feels as though maybe that’s not such a terrible thing after all. Maybe he really has been denying something important.

Keith chuckles, but he’s feeling a little wet in the eyes, and Shiro’s look of understanding is undermining the lust he’d been projecting to Keith just moments ago, leaving Keith to wonder how much of that heat had been an act for Keith’s sake.

“Are you happy that you were right? Or worried?” Keith’s voice is a little unstable, but he needs to know if he should set the knife aside before things stray too far.

“Both. Just be careful.” Shiro’s voice is also wavering and too honest, and that reassures Keith more than the words themselves.

With a move like a violinist changing the angle of his bow, Keith turns the blade and reverse slices — right up Shiro’s chest, neatly parallel with the first cut, a little deeper than the other two, the blood swelling and beading and then trailing across, getting caught in the dried blood barrier of the first cut and blooming out into a small lake.

Then Keith lets go of all reticence and lets the knife skate across Shiro’s skin as instinct wills, leaving crimson flourishes and waves and starbursts in its wake. Some nicks are so shallow that the blood lines the cut without rising up over the top layer of skin, instead filling the incision like a dye. Some cuts boil up big, red swells of scarlet that sit without spreading, only slowly getting dull as the air exerts itself upon the surface.

Shiro’s hands have long since started guiding Keith’s hips, up and down, like Keith weighs no more than a blow-up doll, and Keith takes care to steer clear of any muscles bulging with effort or to trace them with only the lightest touch that leaves nothing but a white line of ruffled skin cells.

Keith gives up watching his knife and the blood. His hand knows what to do and he needs no more proof of Shiro’s willingness to submit to him.

Instead, he connects with those dark bottle-green eyes and loses himself in them — feels it in the pace of Shiro’s breath under his knife how close Shiro is. Keith submits himself to his own pleasure, letting it wash him clean of all residual insecurity and doubt —

Shiro moans under him, and Keith answers, the hand that’s furiously following through with his orgasm dropping down to grip the contours of that taut abdomen, to anchor himself to Shiro, seal them ever more thoroughly together as they wind down and melt to one soul.

“Keith.”

Keith blinks open wet eyelashes, sees nothing but Shiro, and smiles.

Then his smile falters.

There’s a wide rivulet of red on Shiro’s chest, skirting the trail of Keith’s come and rolling up to the hollow of Shiro’s neck from a cut that Keith’s knife is still sunk into.

✘✘✘✘✘✘✘

“Jeez, Shiro, I’m so sorry.”

Shiro laughs again. “You already said that.”

“But I am!” The blood’s stopped by now, and Keith tries to stand to get some disinfectant he can wipe up the mess with.

“Said that too.” And with that, Shiro pulls Keith back down, cradling him tight against his own wounded chest and kisses him snugly.

Keith struggles to protest in mumbles across Shiro’s lips. “You’ll get come in your cuts.”

“Good thing we’ve got healing pods.”


End file.
